I’ve decided that WordPress has a lot going for it. Behind the most poorly-designed user interface known to man, there’s an indulgently trompe l’œil comfort in even having an account. Robust in its own quirky way, and untainted by the largely Kardashianised sister platforms, it has a certain charm.
There are no pressures to shop out my blemishes or angle my physique to where I’m 2/3 ass. No-one knows what I’m eating or drinking, where I’m posting from, and the only thing I’m contouring are my words.
Smoke and mirrors, if you will. Done right. If I gave a shit, or had the time, I’d entertain the idea of fabricating a solidly-enviable life. Put my all into it. Accumulate a fidget-spinning following, egged on by acai bowls and chia seeds, while hints of Nordic chic would rubber-stamp an aesthetically-conscious edge. Slab tables, I think. Faint throwbacks to Ella Fitzgerald. Something or other blonde; woods, hair, what you will.
I’d be clever, too. Invert the letters for the days I sip chai, and casual mentions of industrial metallics or courtyards would add a certain folie-folie. I’d be too classy to name-drop; leaving merely in my wake an out-of-focus, suspended question mark, framed only by a flurry of coffee shops and strung-out cappuccino trails spelling out “wish you were here”. I’d be too busy or popular to check the comments.
I’d risk it, but WordPress says it powers 28% of the internet. Which suggests a budget. One that might, one day, even stretch to Julian Assange. He would definitely out my Waitrose location. The empire of flat whites would collapse in an irreversible mountain of shame, and still, I would attempt its facades. For acquisition of the impossible has no limits.
The Waitrose Christmas Cup.
For now, my sole, most-fuelled, and most-ardent pursuit.